


Worst Luck

by The_Loser_Trio



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Gen, honestly love this lil sod so much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:00:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25054270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Loser_Trio/pseuds/The_Loser_Trio
Summary: About Lambert falling in the battle against the Wild Hunt.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	Worst Luck

**Author's Note:**

> Save us all |D;   
> I thought I’d store this where I could find it again! Since things get buried way too easily.
> 
> If anyone reads this, hope you enjoy! Trying to explore my writing a bit.

‘𝗟𝗮𝗺𝗯𝗲𝗿𝘁, 𝗱𝗼𝗻’𝘁 𝗯𝗲 𝗮 𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗼!’

A fucking joke, really. Witchers were as heroic as the next poor sod, hit by destiny’s ire. More to the point, there was nowhere to go. Nowhere to dodge; to escape. He was trapped, though it was these foul creatures’ mistake if they believed a cornered Witcher would crumble so easily.

“Come on, fuckfaces. Let’s see what you’ve got!” 

Teeth bared, words a low snarl, Lambert dodged around a heavy blow to slash viciously with his blade. A Quen shield to protect him from the one coming from behind. Except there were three more and none of them looked bothered, as much as one could tell with that fucking armour. Each traded blow and dodge seemed to only be wearing Lambert down, his foes relentless and untiring. He couldn’t drag Quen up, he needed some 𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚. Except there was no relief, a continuous onslaught until his defences couldn’t stand. It wasn’t even a shock. They’d pushed him back, blades flashing and hateful, until one—or perhaps more, the youngest Witcher was starting to struggle keeping up with the specifics—sliced into his side, deep and painful. 

A cry, or maybe that wasn’t him, sounded loud before he desperately went for aard. Anything to gain him some distance, a time to recuperate and think. Only they wouldn’t let him. Two fell away, only for a third to cut him down suddenly. No cry this time. Only the thud of his body, sword escaping his numb fingers to drop uselessly away. Shit. He could taste the blood on his tongue, the weariness dragging down his body even as he forced himself upwards. The bastards didn’t allow him that either. An iron clad fist slammed into his face, cracking bone and bringing Lambert back down, followed by a kick that sent something in him howling in agony. 

“F-Fuck.” 

Lambert whined, choked off and defeated. Except it didn’t stop. Nothing stopped, the draw of each breath became harder. The blood clogged up in his throat and he realised, with muted horror, that he’d drown in it. And he was scared. Fucking terrified, really. He knew a Witcher’s life would end like this, but he’d wanted—he wanted so badly to do more, to spend more time-

What were the last words he’d spoken to everyone? Had he told Ciri what she meant to him, how he’d die for her if it meant her safety and life? Told Vesemir that, despite everything, Lambert didn’t loathe him like was always shown? That there was care there. Vesemir had been more father than his actual father and that meant a lot. What about Geralt? Did Geralt know how much Lambert cared for him, that the ribbing was fondness. The white wolf was a brother, one of the ones that the youngest trusted with all his being. If anyone deserved destiny to lay off, it was him. Did Eskel know, as well, how much Lambert loved him? That the older guiding him with a patience few others bothered with had meant the entire world to the younger? That people should love him for who he was as a person, not to fear the scars of such a gentle man. And Lambert— 

Lambert would miss them. He’d never get to annoy his brothers again, get drunk with them, be there for them. He wouldn’t watch as they got older. Ciri would go far, only without an extra uncle to cheer her on or remind her that she would always be family. Vesemir could finally get peace from the winter without his arse messing everything up, and what a fucking shame that was. 

Why hadn’t he hugged any of them before the battle..? Why hadn’t he reached out, admitted what was hidden in his heart? Why had he squandered every opportunity- 

Breaths wet and shuddering, Lambert felt the darkness closing in. There was no escape, no assistance. Only the cold grasp of death as he died, crumpled and alone. That was it. Only this. And he wept for it, for the end to be this. Powerless. Alone. A failure. 

𝘐’𝘮 𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺


End file.
